


White Noise

by Toad1



Series: A Horse With No Name [7]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance, The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: Anxiety, Gen, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:30:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4358036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toad1/pseuds/Toad1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Kobra Kid has a panic attack, he turns to Dr. Death Defying for assistance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Noise

Kobra Kid turned his boot over and shook out the dust, then smacked the sides of the boot. Sand littered the bottom of the tub like cocoa powder. After dusting off the other boot, he knocked them both against the rim of the tub, chipping crusts of mud off the soles. The familiar routine soothed his anxious nerves. He lined up the boots in front of the bathtub, then sat down on the toilet for a while. Cool night air filtered through the cracked window.

When his stomach had settled, he wandered into the motel bedroom. Party Poison knelt in front of the TV, hitting the channel button. Grainy images flashed across the screen. _Bzzt_. Static. _Bzzt_. Neon blur. _Bzzt_. Test signal. _Bzzt_. More static…

Poison groaned. “Hey,” he said when he spotted Kobra. “Can you mess with the rabbit ears?”

Kobra adjusted the antennae on top of the set as Poison flipped through the channels. Noise blurted from the speakers, but the images were hazy and distorted. Finally, Poison sighed and sat back on his knees. He dug out his wallet and flipped through it.

“All right,” he said. “Could you go down to the store and get some dinner? I’m going to keep fiddling with this thing.”

Kobra thought of the silence, the creeping darkness outside, and his stomach tightened. But he forced it down like a child swallowing a pill. “Yeah,” he said, pocketing the carbons. “Yeah, I’ve got it.”

“Thanks, kiddo.” Poison turned back to the TV and started hitting the buttons again. Kobra caught a “Goddammit” as he walked out the door.

When he stepped outside, a gust of cool air blanketed his face. A dark parking lot stretched just outside the lighted sidewalk. The black desert loomed across the highway. His heart pounded as he started down the sidewalk. Whenever he crossed a dark patch where the light had burnt out, a charge of anxiety rippled through his nerves. He darted around the office, the neon _OPEN_ sign glowing across his face, and hurried into the store attached to the motel.

When he stepped inside, he stopped. A line stretched in front of the counter. _Shit_ , Kobra thought. He folded his arms and stood at the back of the line. A hard ball of nausea roiled in his stomach. The girl in front of him bounced on her feet, the fidgety movements making his anxiety rise.

He looked desperately around the room for a distraction. Magazines, cloth scraps, bowls, dried wildflowers, buckets, recycled paper, blankets, rocks, glittering disco ball keychains. A barrel of soup bones. First-aid supplies in a glass case. The woman behind the counter handed over some packaged food, and the line moved forward. Kobra tried to focus on something, but the crowded room made his head spin.

From the cast-iron stove in the corner came the scent of baking bread. His stomach churned at the smell of food. The girl in front of him was still bouncing on her feet. People coughed, fidgeted, sighed. The disco ball keychains winked in the light. A shudder washed over him, as if his very atoms were shivering. The nausea had formed a hard, immovable lump in his stomach like a weight around his middle.

Suddenly the shop owner slammed something on the counter. Kobra jumped, then turned and darted out the door. All his anxiety seemed to collide in one explosive moment. He ran blindly down the sidewalk, lights flashing past his vision. The panic beat against his skull, blurred his vision, bubbled in his throat, a rising force that he couldn’t tolerate for one minute, one more second…

He hurried back inside and stumbled down the hallway, suppressing the urge to gag. When he threw open the door, Poison looked up. His face must have served as an explanation, because Poison quickly ushered him inside and closed the door.

“Here,” he said quickly. “It’s okay. C’mon. Just sit down and relax.”

Kobra sank into a chair beside the bed. The panic was starting to ebb away like a receding tide.

“I found a channel that works,” Poison said. “I think it’s a news feed from the city.”

Kobra turned to the TV, which displayed a washed-out image of a news anchor. Her voice buzzed and hummed with static. His mind flashed back to the Battery City news reports he had watched every day as a child, and the report seemed oddly comforting. He settled back in the seat and absorbed the bland images and bright, distorted commercials like warmth from a blanket.

After a while, Poison headed out to the shop and returned with a package of food. He had just placed it on the table when the TV suddenly popped and went black. Kobra jumped in his seat. A pinpoint of light disappeared into the set.

“Shit,” Poison said. He knelt down and jabbed the power button, but the screen remained black. “I think the girl at the front desk said they shut it off after an hour,” he said.

He hit the channel buttons and smacked the side of the set. Finally, he sighed and sat down at the table. Kobra took the seat in front of him. For a few minutes, the room was silent except for the sounds of quiet chewing. Kobra looked around for a clock, but there was only a pale circle on the wallpaper where the clock used to be.

“Hey,” Kobra said, breaking the silence. “I’m sorry I couldn’t…”

Poison shook his head. “Don’t worry about it, kid,” he said quietly.

They continued eating in silence. When the meal was over, Poison walked down to the office to check the time. It was 11 o’clock. After calling Jet Star to check on the diner, they got dressed for bed and turned off the lights. Kobra lay stiffly in bed, the food resting heavily on his stomach. The blackness weighed down on him like a smothering blanket. He waited until Poison’s snores filled the air, then grabbed his transmitter from the nightstand and snuck out the door.

When he stepped outside, the hallway seemed to be glaringly bright. Kobra winced and rubbed his eyes, then turned his transmitter to the right frequency. Static blasted from the speakers. He quickly turned down the volume, his heart pounding.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “D? Are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” Dr. Death Defying said, his voice crackling with static. “What do you need?”

“Hey,” Kobra said. “Sorry, man. I know it’s late. I need the number of that therapist.”

“What therapist?”

“The one on your show last week. She said she worked with, uh–war veterans.”

“Do you know a war veteran?” Dr. Death said.

“No,” Kobra said. “It–it’s for me, man. I thought she could help with this anxiety.”

“Well, you’ll have to look elsewhere, kid,” Dr. Death said. “She only works with vets. That’s why she lives at the camp in Zone Two.”

Kobra sighed, his shoulders sinking. He bent forward and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Do you know anybody else?” he said.

“If you want a trained professional, you won’t find one around here,” Dr. Death said. “The last one I knew of went back to the city a while ago.”

“What about Zone Two?”

“Kid, you’re not driving up to Zone Two every week.”

“Then give me someone,” Kobra said shortly. “Anyone. Just help me out here, man. Please.”

There was a pause. Kobra held his breath, fearing he had offended him. Then he heard the familiar squeak of his wheelchair, followed by rustling papers. Dr. Death sighed. He turned away from the transmitter and spoke to Show Pony. Kobra listened closely, but their voices were too muffled to make out.

“All right,” Dr. Death said, his voice coming back into focus. “When you get back, give Pony a call. He’ll head over there and talk to you.”

Kobra blinked. “Pony?” he said. “Really?”

“He knows a lot more than you think, kid,” Dr. Death said. His wheelchair creaked as he backed away from the desk. “Just give him a call and tell him you’re dealing with anxiety. He knows what to do. His hippie parents taught him all about it.”

The thought of Show Pony wearing a suit and sitting behind a therapist’s desk made Kobra smile. “All right,” he said. “Yeah. I’ll call him when I get back.”

“He’ll hold you to it. And watch yourself out there, kid. I don’t want to see you freeze up during a fight.”

Kobra’s expression went solemn. “Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”

“All right, I’ve got to get back to work. Call me if anything else comes up.”

“Will do. Thanks, man.”

“Good night, kid.”

The wave went silent. Kobra switched off his transmitter, then paused. For the first time, he realized that the anxiety was gone. He stood in the hallway for a few minutes as if trying to preserve the feeling. Then he quietly opened the door and slipped back inside, feeling lighter than he had in a long time.


End file.
